When her name is finally on the deeds of the cottage, Liz can hardly believe it. She can’t move in yet, not when so much needs to be done, so she rents a nearby property and tries to discipline herself to stay away and let the builders get on with the improvements. But one day she answers the phone and Colin Anderson, the foreman, is on the end of the line.
‘Is there a problem?’ Liz asks hesitantly, hoping the answer will be in the negative.
‘No’ so much a problem, hen. We just wondered what you wanted done with the sacks of clothes in the loft.’
*
There are two of them. The men have found the sacks wedged in the narrow triangle between sloping roof and floor. Together, she and Colin Anderson edge along boards laid on top of the joists that form the framework for the ceiling of the living room. Put a foot wrong and they will have more than a floor in the attic to fix. The bags of clothes cascade down the metal ladder and send up clouds of dust as they hit the linoleum.
‘Are you sure you should be taking these, hen?’ Colin Anderson asks her, as they load the finds into the boot of her car.
‘What else would we do with them? I’ll probably finish up throwing them all away. I just need to make sure there’s nothing relevant to the cottage.’ Going through her mind is the possibility that she may find something to link with her mother or, at least, her mother’s photograph. ‘These things must have belonged to the old man who lived here,’ she goes on, ‘and everyone tells me that he’s no relatives.’ Liz has found out little more about the previous owner of her cottage and she has no desire to visit Neil Cunningham, who would, in any case, be unlikely to tell her more.
‘Aye, right enough.’ Colin Anderson slams shut the car door and Liz gives him a friendly wave and reverses out of the drive. By the time she gets back to the next village and her current lodgings, the car smells as musty and dank as the sacks themselves.
It’s clear that the hessian sacks have been attacked by the twin problems of damp and vermin. She had been informed of the leak between chimney and roof, a problem that has now been dealt with. But its legacy is apparent in the mouldering heap of garments when she empties out the first sack and spreads it on the protecting sheets of newspaper over the kitchen floor.
They are, for the most part, women’s clothes… dresses in a style and print reminiscent of pictures she has seen from the war years. She pulls out one in a dark material with an all-over design of small sprigs of unidentifiable flowers and spreads it out on the carpet. It is short-sleeved with a bodice gathered at the front into a high waist. The skirt is only slightly flared, frugal even. What is it they called the war style? Utilitarian, that was it. She can see from its size that the wearer must have been small and slim.
On a whim, Liz gets up and crosses quickly to a drawer, where she has stored for safety the photograph of her mother, but the dress does not match the one the girl is wearing, and neither do any of the others. Liz gathers up the decaying heap of frocks and bundles them back into the sack. They will go into the clothing bank for disposal.
There is only one man’s garment, a suit in a dark brown material. Although marred by the neglect of years, it looks as though it has hardly been worn. She adds it to the dresses.
When she tips out the contents of the second smaller bag, she gasps in surprise. Across the newspaper is scattered an assortment of baby clothes – nappies in muslin and towelling, tiny vests and nightdresses, knitted cardigans and hats. All are spoiled with mildew and damp, but what is clear is that they have never been used. They are brand new.
She hesitates, some primitive instinct telling her that to throw out these tiny garments would be thoughtless. Spreading them out on the newspaper, she leaves them to dry. She picks up a folded sheet of newspaper, damp and disintegrating, that has fallen out of the sack with the clothes and carefully prises apart the edges. Inside are two bits of paper, letters maybe. She flattens them out, but the ink has run and both are covered in mould. She can decipher only the odd word – ‘what is wrong’, ‘do anything’, ‘wishes’, ‘no need’. She almost throws them away but decides against it, putting the notes to one side, next to the tiny clothes.
She knows the importance of letters.